


Set Out in a New Direction

by Cinaed



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 3 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Choices, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 13:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17550740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: Three things that never happened to Montparnasse, or the importance of choices.





	Set Out in a New Direction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> Transferring a few meme answers from Tumblr. This one was written for carmathen, who asked for five things that never happened to Montparnasse. It became three things again because a few of the ideas ran away with me. 
> 
> The title comes from [The Decision](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/51061/the-decision-56d22e8fc2b07) by Jane Hirshfield.

**I.**

“You are handsome,” the grisette had told him laughingly, but with sincere appreciation obvious in the slow, appraising sweep of her gaze.

Montparnasse had considered this new fact much later, peering at himself in the scratched mirror he kept in his flat, in so much as he considered anything, for thinking was not his strong suit. So he was handsome, then, he saw, admiring the red of his lips and the charming shade of his hair.

His reflection made a moue of distaste at his threadbare clothes. How might he find some clothes that matched his own beauty? He considered this, his head hurting somewhat from the effort.

The next day found Montparnasse installed at an artist’s studio, sprawled lazily upon the chair the instructor had provided and rather enjoying the sensation of a dozen students’s eyes upon him. Some of the appreciative gazes were almost as satisfying as the money the artist promised.  

 

* * *

 

 

**II.**

For Montparnasse, Azelma had always been an afterthought when it came to that family. Eponine had been more dangerous and less fearful of him, Gavroche more entertaining, and their parents more useful, and therefore the quiet, mousy girl her siblings called ‘Zelma had often been overlooked.

But most of the others were dead or gone now. Although Montparnasse did not miss them, precisely, or at least didn’t recognize the restless feeling and the persistent boredom that came from their lack in his life as grief, he followed after her when he spotted that familiar gaunt face in the crowd.

“Well,” he said, and watched her startle and turn. She watched him silently, more wariness than fear in her expression. It was a face of one who had seen too much and lost too much to be frightened much of anything any longer. “And what are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she said in a rough, low whisper, but her gaze slid away. “Just some business for my father.”

“Business,” he said slowly, with interest, and she winced a little. She was more frightened of her father than she was of him, he saw, because uneasiness touched her expression.

“Nothing but a bit of revenge,” she said, too quick. “No money in it for you at all. Otherwise he’d have asked for you and the others.”

Montparnasse smiled and linked arms with her, ignoring her shudder. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said, and for the first time since word had reached him of Gavroche and Eponine’s deaths and Claquesous’s disappearance, the strange restless feeling vanished. He felt almost cheerful.  

After a moment, Azelma’s chin dipped in defeat. “I’m to learn all I can about this old gentleman,” she said, “who had his arm in a sling during a wedding. Father knows him from somewhere.”

“An old gentleman,” Montparnasse said, and laughed, fingering the blade concealed in his sleeve. “Sounds like a simple enough job." 

 

* * *

 

 

**III.**

Montparnasse eased himself through the window, but despite his care, a floorboard creaked beneath his foot. He froze, listening, but no sound came from the next bedchamber.

He took in the stripped-bare room without much interest. Someone had slept here once, but they were of no concern to him. The old man, that blockhead, was why he was here. He crept towards the door.

He was halfway to the door when it opened and a shadow fell upon him. A second later two strong hands seized him. Montparnasse swore and struggled, but the old man’s strength was still incredible. After a moment’s exertions Montparnasse stilled and remained sullen and quiet in that unyielding grip.

The moonlight was too dim to make out most of the old man’s expression, but Montparnasse thought he looked puzzled. “You are that thief,” the old man said slowly. “The one to whom I gave my purse. But how is it that you are here?” 

Montparnasse bared his teeth for a moment. It was only the stinging of his wound, the terrible memory of looking in a mirror and seeing the cut upon his ear, that kept him from stubborn, prideful silence. “You said being a thief would ruin my looks,” he said, stumbling over the words. In fact, the old man had said much more, but Montparnasse had not paid much attention to the rest of that speech. He resisted the urge to touch his ear, still hopeful that leaving it alone would mean it would not scar and ruin his looks. He licked his lips. “I don’t want that.”

The old man stared at him. “And you’ve come to me for advice?” he said after a moment. If Montparnasse had not known better, he might have thought the blockhead sounded half-amused. “My child, you might have knocked upon my door rather than my window.” 

When Montparnasse said nothing and only scowled, his pride still smarting from being caught so easily, the man sighed and released him. “Well, come,” he said, and amazed Montparnasse by turning his back upon him, as though he trusted him not to stab him. Over his shoulder, the old man remarked, “I am not much of a housekeeper, but I can make tea, and we shall discuss what sort of work you might do.”

Montparnasse’s lips curled at the word  _work_ , but for the moment he did not protest, but rather followed the old man into the antechamber. Surely between the two of them they would find a trade that did not involve — and here Montparnasse’s lips curled once more in contempt at his own thoughts —  _toil._


End file.
